What’s a “dream girl?” A working definition may be useful. A dream girl is a girl, that particular type of girl, who is beautiful, fun, smart, intelligent, and sexy. Someone you can’t be without, someone you can’t live without. Someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, build a future with, and have a family with. Someone you put above all others, love above all others.
My wife is my dream girl. Always has been and always will. She is not only the best thing that ever happened to me but the best thing in my life. She also drives me crazy. More on that later.
We met in college. Junior college, but an ambitious student has to start somewhere. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. She had just been elected to Student Government, and we were working summer registration together. She sat sidesaddle in a chair, shorts, Oingo Boigo t-shirt, ponytail and bangs I still love. Looking positively damn cute. That’s what I remember the most. How damn cute she was. She reeked cuteness.
I wanted her, bad. I couldn’t talk to girls in general, but had to talk to her. I grasped for something in common to break the ice. Sort of like how I broke the ice with the high school mascot in history class one day by telling her she had a “big chest.” You know subtlety. It’s an art, even if it looks good in a tight sweater. And it did.
I introduced myself, and asked her about her shirt and Oingo Boingo. I find comfort in talking about music; it’s one of the few things I know well. So I guess it was Oingo Boingo that ultimately brought us together. Thank God it wasn’t a New Kids on the Block shirt. We might have never spoken.
I made it no secret that I was interested in her, or so I thought. Apparently, this was all a mystery to the object of my affection for almost 13 years. Everybody else knew…she’s always been stubborn though. Most people thought we were a couple. I should have known she’d never date a guy that wore Wrangler jeans, and had think Run-DMC glasses. What I’m sayin’ here is that I had no style, can’t ya see?
Our first big hangout night was right before Halloween. I was working at a video store. Allright, watching pornos between customers is hardly work, but I was paid for it. She and her best friend came down to the video store and picked me up. We had hung out some at school but this was my first real time out with them.
I hadn’t done much socializing of the usual type in high school. Never went to many dances, parties or football games. Never really hung out or cruised. This was a new experience to me. This was quite a social event for me, my coming out, so to speak. I did what any new young social climber does with young friends—I interpretive danced. I did the PeeWee Herman in the backseat of a VW Rabbit to “Tequila.” Danced, not tossed off.
I didn’t get out much.
Our friendships progressed from there, and being the shy type and not knowing how to express my feelings, I slept with her best friend. That’s the way to a girl’s heart! I was still a virgin, and I think they thought in some strange way they were doing me a favor. I’ve always gone about things in a roundabout way.
Depending on whom you talk to, I won or lost a bet. I was getting paid (or laid) for B-52s tickets. I was the only one of the group with room on the credit card Citibank had deemed a necessary part of the collegiate experience. They were her favorite band. The initial plan was for us to put our three tickets on my credit card. It was a New Year’s Eve show, the plan was that we would all go and have a great time.
My Mother put the nix on that action. New Year’s was too dangerous. I might be killed. True there are many drunk drivers on the road on your typical New Year’s Eve, and a car is not a toy. It’s not like I was going to be walking down the freeway or riding there and back on a big wheels. I would have been careful. Really. Anyway, I was “too young.” I also had an 11:30 PM curfew until I was 20, but that’s a different story. Their roof their rules.
I gave the tickets to the girls. We had no money (thus the credit cards), so the girls decided they would barter with what they had available. That’s right…sweet lovin’. The most precious of commerce. It was decided that her best friend would sleep with me in exchange for the tickets. Not sure if they drew straws, or if the friend was taking one for the team, or they felt sorry for me being a virgin at 19. I suspect they felt sorry for me being a virgin at 19.
The flower of my virginity was precious, my most precious possession. I wouldn’t just give it up for anything; it had to be a special occasion.
Either way, it was decided that my future wife’s best friend would de-virginize me. It was touching and beautiful. It was over in a few minutes, and I think she burned me with a cigarette while we were doing it. It was probably my fault for not balancing the ashtray properly on my back.
Her instructions were helpful though.
“No, that’s not it…right there. Are you done?”
It took about that long for the flowerpot of my virginity to break open. Maybe two minutes.
So it sort of broke down like this: three B52 tickets, $100. A t-shirt for the guy whose Mom wouldn’t let him go: $25 (which they bought with money from the 3rd ticket they sold before they show). Your future wife holding a glass to the wall hearing you lose your virginity to her best friend: priceless.
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